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John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident.  

His work has appeared in Poem, Spindrift, Tribeca Poetry Review, the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon.  His work has also appeared in Old Red Kimono, Alimentum,  South Carolina Review, The Pedestal, Prism International, Big Muddy, Slant, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.   

 

 

 

 

 

 


John's Origami microchaps are available below.  Download the single-page PDF and print/fold.

Origami Microchap

Selected Poem(s)

Small World Made Large  

 

John Grey CVR Small World Made Large

Cover art: Azteca

by Helen Burke

 

DESERT DRIVE

Talk flamed out. Radio incoherent.
Landscape's beginning to impose itself.
Road flat. Mountains in the distance.
Always mountains in the distance.
For all the asphalt below, tires can't help
but wind up the dust. Where are we?
Must be off the map by this.
Fingers fiddle with the dials. Was that
a trumpet sound? Mariachi? Maybe
Calexico. Nah, no one ever plays them.
More static. Like the stunted trees.
Solitary boulders. Scattered bones
from someone else's narrative.
Always between towns. Throat dry
and you feel like you're a refugee,
somewhere between countries.
Passenger closes eyes. Driver opens his
the wider to compensate. Sips from
the water bottle. Forget the gut.
Fluid goes to wherever it's needed.
Checks his watch. Making good time.
Bad times always do.

John Grey © 2017

Excerpt from the Book

 

 

Cover:  Newport Gate
by Kevin Keough
 
 
 

MATRIARCH

I remember my grandmother
who, after a lifetime of noonday-sun-avoidance,
had skin like pink porcelain,
not a wrinkle to be had
and yet, no mistaking her for someone younger.

For she was old like sea-glass or shells,
like the outside walls of the Providence courthouse
or the various architectural splendors
of the east side, or trees like birch
that turn shiny silver when they hit their century.

She was strong, not from muscle and bone,
which were frail when I knew her,
but of years lived, of tales recounted,
of people she knew and could, even then, remember.

Other people died young.
But she lived well into her nineties.
As her days wore on,
time found her increasingly necessary.
 
John Grey © 2015